Invisible
by Semebay
Summary: Matthew was often left forgotten and alone in the background. When he was finally noticed by Gilbert, he thought he had a friend. But being noticed made life worse, and so family steps in. Drama. Emotional abuse. Language. Sexual situations.


Edited this slightly to get rid of the worst epithets and errors. I originally put this on Livejournal two years ago for the kink meme. Hope you enjoy it!

* * *

><p>The meeting was a disaster.<p>

Matthew had planned a great speech. He was going to be noticed, once and for all, and he was going to get some attention. He was going to contribute, _not_ be mistaken for his brother.

His ideas were going to be heard. He was going to make a difference, and contribute ideas to the climate change dilemma.

And then Gilbert ruined it.

He didn't know why Gilbert did the things he did. From deciding what food to get for dinner, to getting the attention of everyone at the meetings, whatever he did, _everything_ he did, it took attention away from Matthew.

Not that Matthew would have been noticed anyway.

Matthew drank in silence, staring at the television over the bar. No one had asked him if he wanted to go out for a drink (_typical_), no one had even noticed the host of the meeting.

But they had noticed Gilbert.

And Alfred.

_"Why else do you think he always talks loud and acts stupid?"_

Matthew grabbed another drink.

_"He doesn't want to be like you."_

Raised it to his lips.

_"Doesn't want to be mistaken for you."_

Drank.

_"Doesn't want to be in the same room as you."_

Matthew dropped the now-empty bottle on the table, breathing out. "Because who would want to be related to me," he muttered, repeating the words he had heard so many times before.

He didn't feel like drinking anymore. Even the hockey game was no longer interesting. He dropped some cash on the counter and pulled his coat on.

It was all true, there was no denying it.

Canada. That's what he was.

The meeting was a failure. The weather was frigid, no one wanted to be there. Someone had even tried to set up teleconferencing, just so they could avoid going outside for ten minutes to get to the conference hall. Most had agreed, but they had also admitted it would be better to "face the music" and just go.

Canada. Barren, cold, inhabitable in the north.

A lump. Useless. Stupid (why else did no one notice him? He was quiet because he never had anything good to say).

Even Francis had given him away. To Arthur. And Arthur had found far more interest in his twin- (but he couldn't say they were twins, Alfred would be mad) his _southern neighbor_- and had left him alone.

He had often been forgotten.

He had been stupid back then.

Matthew walked towards his house, noting the lights inside.

_Is it..?_

He burst through the door and shook off the snow.

Gilbert didn't look up from the TV.

"Hey," Matthew said, and Gilbert grunted a response. A response. To him.

It was more than he had received in a long time.

"This guy on here's a dick," Gilbert complained as Matt shook off his coat and removed his boots. "Grab me a few beers, will ya?"

"Sure." Matthew walked over to the refrigerator and looked inside. Gilbert had obviously been in there already; there was only a six-pack left. He grabbed it, knowing that he wouldn't be getting any. But, well, he had already had his fill at the bar. He supposed he didn't need anymore.

"You were really into it at the meeting," Matthew said when he sat down on the couch. Gilbert hummed something and grabbed the pack from him, cracking open a can.

The two were silent for a long time. Then

"No one knew you were there, did they?"

Matthew simply looked away.

* * *

><p>The relationship was normal enough. Entertainment, food, sex. That's what a relationship was. And with Gilbert, that was the most he would ever get.<p>

He cooked. He cleaned. Everything they did, they did in Canada, close to his house. He didn't complain when Gilbert tracked mud inside in the spring (Kumajirou always did the same thing, so why would it be a problem with Gilbert?). He never complained when Gilbert emptied his fridge and dropped broken glass in the sink.

He never complained.

That was for the best, wasn't it? After all, if he complained, Gilbert would leave. He had known that from day one.

_I'm not dealing with any of the pansy shit._

So he just adjusted. Gilbert shouldn't have to change. Because-

_I see you, don't I?_

-if Gilbert changed, he probably wouldn't see him anymore.

He wouldn't know he existed.

_Even Francis doesn't know who you are._

Because Francis had changed with the times. So had everyone else.

He wondered if he himself had changed. He imagined he didn't. He only changed when Gilbert requested it, hinted at it. He imagined that with Gilbert's guidance, he was more forward

_meeker_

more outspoken

_silent_

more... him.

_disgusting_

But the only thing he protested

_wanted to protest_

was Gilbert's absence. If they weren't at the same location for a meeting, then they usually didn't see each other. Rarely did Gilbert visit on his own

_unless he wanted a cheap fuck_

but when he did visit, Matthew did the best he could to make him comfortable, make him happy

_a tool_

and make him want to come back.

Over time, the voice in the back of his mind faded. He never noticed. He was too busy trying to appease Gilbert, trying to make him want to stay. Through food, beer, sex; he offered everything he had.

After all, it was an okay relationship. It was a _great_ relationship. He was somebody, he was seen.

He didn't want to be alone again.

* * *

><p>The meetings were becoming few and far between. Meetings that used to be held every month were pushed back to every other month. Then every three months. Everyone was frantic to try to solve things, from wars to economic crises.<p>

The upside to this, Matthew mused, was that the meeting lasted for a week. With so much (and so little) going on around the world, the meetings were long and tedious, as every nation struggled to say everything they had to in the allotted time. But that meant it was a week of being noticed.

And not noticed in the way a bartender notices a client, how he notices only someone willing to pay for a drink.

He was noticed because it was him. It was Matthew Williams that Gilbert noticed, and it was Matthew Williams that he spent his time with.

But three days after the meetings began, Gilbert still hadn't shown up.

Not at the meetings.

Not at his hotel.

Not anywhere.

He wasn't sure why he felt so pressed to find out where he was. Gilbert was probably busy. After all, there were still four days left. He could wait.

But two more days passed, and Matthew still hadn't seen the man.

He wasn't sure why he turned to Arthur. A misguided decision brought to light because of desperation, perhaps?

He had asked Arthur about it, asked if he had seen Gilbert anywhere. When Arthur had shaken him off, muttering something about finishing his notes in his room, he had gone to Francis.

Francis had raised an eyebrow. Matthew was sure Francis thought he was Alfred, and in his mind, he apologized. Apologized for unintentionally bringing up the resemblance to his southern neighbor. But then Francis had shrugged and motioned to the door, saying something about going to a bar.

And Matthew had declined. It was unfair to go with Francis, while the older nation believed him to be Alfred.

It would be cruel. And depressing.

So Matthew returned to his hotel room and watched television, barely seeing the news, or the attractive woman (he shouldn't think like that, he had Gilbert) that did the weather. He finished typing his notes. He went to bed.

Gilbert didn't visit him that week.

* * *

><p>When Gilbert finally visited (and <em>flew<em> all the way to Canada, Matthew noted), the first place they went was the bedroom. And after, the living room. Matthew went out for beers, leaving Gilbert waiting and watching the sports channel. He moved as fast as he could, cursing himself for not having more on hand. He should have known that Gilbert didn't care much for his Molsons, and he should have seen if there was something better.

But he had been feeling out of it. He hadn't thought Gilbert would come, so he had worked and slept. Occasionally he had watched tv.

He mentally berated himself. He was doing the kind of thing that Gilbert disliked.

When he finally returned home with the beers, he didn't even get a chance to sit down and watch tv with Gilbert. Gilbert took him right back into the bedroom, muttering the truths that he'd always known.

_You should feel lucky._

_You've got the awesome me._

_No one sees you._

_No one but me._

The first thing Matthew noticed when he woke early the next morning was that there was a weight on the bed beside him.

Gilbert had stayed the night.

Matthew stared at his sleeping face for a long time. It was peaceful. He would mumble something every so often, turn in his sleep, and then he would groan. There were no demands, no leers, no suggestions.

Even so, Matthew finally left him for the kitchen. It wouldn't do if he woke just to leave, so he needed to make something,_ something_ that would keep him from going back home.

However, Gilbert's mood seemed to be better than normal. He woke without a complaint and sat down to a breakfast of pancakes and maple syrup. Matthew wondered if something was wrong when Gilbert didn't leave after breakfast, but then dismissed it when Gilbert asked if there was anything to do in Ottawa.

He had asked about something to do in Ottawa.

He was going to stay, at least for a little while longer.

* * *

><p>Matthew felt like he was flying.<p>

Gilbert, after plenty of grumbling and cursing, had decided he wanted to see a new movie that had recently come out in theaters. Matthew wasn't very interested in the blood and the gore that the movie had to offer, but just being out felt so... _strange,_ and _foreign_. He rather liked the idea that he was going somewhere with Gilbert, and that he hadn't been the one to prompt it.

Gilbert had also demanded food. Not homemade food, but restaurant food. So they went out to eat (something else that had surprised Matthew).

Gilbert certainly wasn't one for that "pansy shit," but he was fun when he made up his mind. When he wanted to go somewhere, when he wanted to just relax, Matthew would be there to go with him. And when he was feeling like shit and didn't want to deal with anything, Matthew would act accordingly.

He had never realized how much his life had become molded around Gilbert's, how he was dancing to the other's tune.

Not even when he gave up hockey.

"I mean, what'll you do if you break a leg or something?" Gilbert said between mouthfuls at dinner. Matthew stared at him with wide eyes, taking a deep breath and then a bite. Anything to try to get what Gilbert had said through his head.

"It's not like you'd be able to do anything with a bum leg or a busted arm or something. I mean, the sex wouldn't be good.

And if the sex wasn't good, then Gilbert didn't come.

Matthew understood that easily enough.

So when they left the restaurant to return home, Matthew looked out the window and watched the cars zoom by, the trees and the familiar pubs.

He loved hockey.

He didn't want to let it go, but if he kept playing, he could get hurt.

And Gilbert wouldn't come if he was injured. He didn't deal with the "pansy shit" (Gilbert always made sure to stress that fact).

Matthew wondered why he didn't feel anything because of it. He didn't feel any sadness. No regret.

_Maybe I didn't like it as much as I thought I did._

He just didn't realize that he was already living a life of misery.

* * *

><p>Gilbert was gone when Alfred called.<p>

By that time, Matthew had made up his mind.

He would forget about it. If he watched hockey, he would want to play. That meant no television, no pubs, no games.

At least it made it easier to say "no" to Alfred's offer to take him out for beers.

"I mean, I guess there's a big hockey game or something tonight, and I bet you'd like it. I mean, I like football better, but whatever. And have you been hanging out with Gilbert lately? Cause, I mean, Arthur asked me why the hell I wanted to talk to him, but I don't even remember saying anything about him, so I figured he must be talking about you-"

"Sorry."

"-and- wait, what?"

Matthew mentally kicked himself. He had made the resemblance between him and Alfred apparent by talking to Arthur.

"Sorry," he repeated. "I don't want to go out. Sorry."

"Matthew?"

Matthew hung up. He stared at the phone, tried to force it to give him answers.

But whatever he expected from it, he wasn't going to get it. It was a phone.

It wasn't a Rosetta Stone, or anything else that could help him. He stared at it, wondered what he was doing.

Something was beginning to feel seriously wrong. He let out a shaky breath. Why was he so on end? It was as though the earth had swelled and shrunk, and he was standing alone. Stress, anger, hatred, all bubbled within him.

_What was he doing?_

He swallowed, tried to force air into his lungs. It felt like he was choking. He could barely breath.

_Scared._

He turned away from the phone, walked slowly to the stairs, and then to his room. He stared at the bed sheets (_stained_), and with a sudden rage that he didn't know he was capable of, he tore them from the bed.

He broke things.

A picture?

_Shattered._

The bureau?

_Drawers pulled out, knobs broken._

The lamp?

_Thrown against the wall._

He didn't know how much time had passed. The phone rang downstairs, he didn't bother answering. Knew he couldn't find the strength to leave the room. Couldn't find the one that was supposed to be beside his bed.

_He had ripped the cord from the wall, destroying sheet-rock, tearing his hands with wire._

He took a deep breath and let his head fall back against the wall.

_Why wasn't life fair?_

* * *

><p>Francis called Alfred in the middle of the night demanding answers.<p>

Alfred had none to give.

"I invited him out to watch hockey but he said no. I figured he was sick or something."

"That's unusual." Francis's voice fluctuated, as though he were grimacing.

"Right? He just kept saying sorry, and I only asked him about Gilbert and-"

"Gilbert?" Francis sounded suddenly alert, and Alfred grumbled something under his breath. "Why Gilbert?"

"Because Arthur was on my case about him, and I didn't do anything, so I figured that Gilbert-"

"-That Gilbert is with Matthew?" Francis sounded thoughtful, and Alfred pulled his glasses off the dresser and put them on. He could already tell it was going to be a long conversation, and his attempts to sleep would have to be put on hold.

"Yeah. I mean-"

"But Gilbert isn't."

"Like I'd know," Alfred grumbled. "Why does this matter?"

"He refused _hockey_ and won't answer my calls. He practically ran away when I last invited him out for drinks. And besides, if he was with Gilbert... Well, Gilbert is brash and likes to play around."

"You've obviously thought this much about it, so you don't need my help," Alfred groaned. But inside, he was beginning to wonder.

"And Gilbert even said they weren't involved. He's rather fond of a few of the barmaids at the local bar, after all..."

There was a long silence, and Alfred considered hanging up. It was far too late (or early) for this.

"Why don't you just go visit him or something?" Alfred pressed. "I mean, you haven't seen him in a while anyways."

"You're closer."

"I'm busy." Alfred could hear Francis tsk him on the other end.

"There's obviously something wrong. Now be the responsible brother, and go see him."

"Francis, I'm going to sleep, and that's all I'll be doing tonight. Or, this morning. Just... you go visit him or something if you're so worried. He probably just has a cold or something, the weather's really fucked up."

Alfred didn't wait for Francis's reply as he clicked off the phone and dropped it on the floor. He turned over and pulled his blankets around him tightly, but Francis's call had bothered him. Now he had something in the back of his mind, nagging him.

_Damn it._

* * *

><p>Matthew didn't know how long he stayed in that spot on the floor, surrounded by the debris from his loss of control.<p>

He had to clean it up.

Cleaning it up seemed like such a chore, and he wanted only to sleep. His bed was a mess, but he still had a guest room he could sleep in.

_No. _He had to clean it up in case Gilbert returned. After all, what would Gilbert say? He had to keep everything neat, or Gilbert might get mad.

Matthew finally convinced himself to stand, but then he just stared at the ruins.

The lamp had been a gift from his brother.

The picture had been one taken in France, when he and Francis had gone to Paris.

The bureau had been in his house for as long as he could remember.

And he had broken them all.

He hated himself. His _weakness._

He took more than he gave.

He was selfish.

He was destructive.

He was disgusting.

Matthew finally began to pick at the mess, pulling shards of wood and glass from the blankets. After a while, he decided to just toss the blankets-

_Wasteful._

-as he wouldn't be able to get all of the tiny pieces out of them anyways. He would probably end up with a small shard of glass in his eye or something.

As he continued to clean, putting the blankets in the trash and removing the drawers from the house, he began to feel considerably worse.

Every piece of glass he threw in the garbage felt heavy. He wanted to cling to them, turn back time and undo everything, just to escape the regret.

He wanted the world to stop around him. He wanted to catch up with time, somehow start over, start things so that they would turn out better.

He wanted out.

* * *

><p>He wanted to be alone, but he didn't want to be forgotten.<p>

But Gilbert had become (_had always been_) overbearing. He didn't know what to do about that. Matthew had changed, in so many ways, and some of those ways scared him.

Why had he changed? For what purpose?

He was useless. Had always been useless. Being with Gilbert had shown him that much.

But how could he just say "no" to the Prussian?

Matthew stared at the room. It felt empty, the missing bureau making a huge difference. It felt bigger.

It felt cold.

He stared at the bare mattress and thought about getting more sheets from the closet.

Thought about it.

Didn't do it.

Ended up sleeping on the couch.

Alone.

But it was better that way.

He stared at the ceiling. He didn't know. He didn't know what he was supposed to know.

Didn't know anything.

Needed to talk.

Someone.

Anyone.

Matthew sat up slowly and stared at the phone. He grabbed it slowly, tried to think of a number.

"What is it?" Arthur demanded on the other end. "Matthew? Say something. I know it's you."

Matthew hung up. Ignored when the phone began to ring.

He didn't want to talk anymore.

* * *

><p>Matthew didn't even try to stand out at the next meeting.<p>

It was the same old thing.

Fly to another country. Find his hotel room. Wait around for the meeting to start with a coffee in hand. Attend said meeting. Get ignored. Go get wasted at a bar or find some restaurant with good food. Eat alone. Return to the room. Sit alone.

And when Gilbert came, it was with a half-hearted smile that he let the man in.

Gilbert didn't notice anything wrong. He wouldn't. He just started in on something about how awesome he was, and how "awesome it is for me to do all this for you."

Matthew was silent while he talked, not really listening, but paying enough attention to know when to nod and agree.

Matthew was glad he had come, he really was. He just... He didn't know. Something tightened in his chest, and when Gilbert insisted on moving to the bed, he agreed.

But when everything was over and Matt was left alone, he stared at the wall. He couldn't sleep, couldn't do anything. He felt so... He couldn't describe the feeling. Maybe he felt like nothing?

He pulled the blankets tighter around himself. The tiny feeling of doubt that had started to emerge after he had spoken with Alfred was growing, and he swallowed. He wanted to die.

He just wanted the earth to swallow him up, and he didn't want to have any part of this anymore.

He just wanted the knocking on his door to go away.

And he wanted to just fall asleep.

He wondered if being noticed was supposed to be this hard.

* * *

><p>They confronted him the following morning after breakfast.<p>

Matthew should have seen it coming. But he had thought that they had simply mistaken him for Alfred again when they had tried to get into his room the night before.

He had been wrong.

"Why did you hang up on me when you called?" Arthur demanded.

Matthew wished that he could fade away. Instead, he tried to shrink in on himself.

"Wrong number," he murmured.

"But I called you right back and you didn't answer."

"Was busy."

Arthur frowned at him. Matthew was already trying to think up a reason to flee to his room, but Francis had already placed an arm around his shoulders and pulled him against his side as they walked.

"We're worried," Francis began. "You've been distant now, and you've never been that way before. Why, I heard you even refused watching hockey with Alfred!" Francis sighed, tightened his grip on Matthew's shoulder. "I've been hearing things about you and Gilbert. Is there something going on, Matthew?"

"N-nothing's wrong," Matthew said, his stomach clenching rather painfully. "I have to call someone."

He fled.

He locked the door when he returned to his hotel room. He ignored the knocking, the calls outside.

Matthew sat in bed and watched tv. He missed the meeting.

He _wanted_ to go. He really did.

But after fleeing like that, he couldn't imagine facing Arthur and Francis again, in front of Gilbert.

He had run away! After a question!

Matthew clicked the television off and sighed. He felt so overwhelmed, everything was happening too quickly for him to catch up.

After a long silence, he gave up. He looked outside, saw the dark sky, and began to pull off his suit jacket and pants. He'd just sleep.

Sleep was good.

Sleep meant no one was watching his every move, judging him, criticizing him.

Sleep was something he didn't have to worry about fucking up.

* * *

><p>He was only asleep for two hours when there was banging on his door.<p>

Half of him wanted to burrow deeper under the blankets. The other half told him to get his ass out of bed and face the music.

With a groan he pulled on his glasses, staring up at the ceiling. He swallowed, turned on the lamp by his bed, and then he climbed out of the mass of blankets and walked to the door.

"Not tonight," he mumbled when the knocking grew louder, and he yanked the door open. Then he wanted to hit himself. Why did he have to have such an attitude? What was _yanking_ open the door going to prove to anyone?

Then his brother was shoving past him, dropping wrappers and bottles on the floor as he made his way to the television.

Matthew stared at him in silence, then he realized he was still holding the door open. He shut it hesitantly, then walked cautiously to his bro-_northern neighbor_.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded, but his voice sounded weak, even to him.

"Watchin' TV," was Alfred's blunt answer.

Matthew wanted to flee. This was _his_ room damn it! Shouldn't he be able to be alone when he wanted to?

But he would never say that. It was selfish.

"You weren't at the meeting today," Alfred said, shoveling a burger in his mouth. He held out a small bag. "French toast sticks?"

Matthew took the bag without a word. He held onto it awkwardly as he watched his brother, as though it were a test. Alfred was kidding, right? Just getting him food, and expecting him to eat?

And as soon as he moved to take a bite, his neighbor would remember that he had only gotten it because he was hungry, and that he wanted it back.

"You gonna eat that?" Alfred asked through a mouthful of burger. "Cause it'd be a waste of money if you don't. I mean, I know it's not your maple syrup, but still."

Matthew let himself slump into a chair by the window, and he slowly opened the bag. Alfred wasn't even watching him. He had contented himself by flipping through tv channels, muttering something about them not having "real football."

Then his brother settled on a station.

Hockey.

"Can you change the channel?" Matthew asked, his voice lower than he had meant for it to be.

"Don't feel like it," Alfred said, tossing the remote aside. "It's better than the other crap that's on."

"I don't want it on," Matthew grumbled. "Just... Just change it."

"No." Alfred sucked down half of his soda. "I'm watching it. Why the hell should I change it?"

"It's my tv," Matthew growled.

"It's the hotel's tv," Alfred corrected cheerfully.

Matthew let it drop. He wasn't interested in pursuing a fight with a superpower. There wasn't any point in it.

"So, who do you think is better this year?" Alfred asked. "Looks like the commie's gonna kick some ass."

"What would you know?" Matthew murmured.

"Well, Canada's not lookin' so hot this year. It's like they picked the nearest homeless guys and shoved them into red shirts, then pushed 'em onto the ice."

Matthew swallowed.

"Has Canada ever been good at any of this shit? I mean, come on! Except for their hockey (which is total shit this year), what do they have going for them?"

Matthew tried to tune him out.

He really did.

But one too many comments about Canucks, and he was seeing floor, television, rug, bed, an endless, repeating cycle.

"Can't even put up a good fight," Alfred laughed, and Matthew's fist met the fat nation's face.

There were crashes as the lamp went, then the end table, the chair, the bags of McDonald's.

And then Matthew was laying on something, breathing heavily, panting. He looked up slowly, saw that he had come to a stop with his head on Alfred's chest.

Neither of them said anything for a long time. They were both out of breath, trying to stop the world from spinning.

Then Alfred was running his hand through Matthew's hair.

"You're not stupid," Alfred mumbled, rubbing his forehead with his free hand as he stared up at the ceiling. "Just... People might not notice you, but you're there." He stopped, tried to think of something else to say. "Shit, this is hard. I mean, you know, you're quiet. But the people that know you like that about you. Hell, you're liked more than me. Can't tell you how many times my people've gone on vacation an' said they're Canadian. People like Canadians. Least, that's what a lotta 'mericans think."

Neither of them said anything. Matthew let his head rest on his brother's chest, listening to the low beats of his heart. He swallowed, shut his eyes, and felt nothing more.

* * *

><p>Matthew felt lighter than he had in a long time.<p>

Even if the effect was dampened by the black eye he had discovered the next morning.

There was no use even attempting to hide it. It looked a lot like he had been hit with a baseball bat. For the first time in a long time, he felt lucky that no one ever noticed him.

Of course, he hadn't counted on Francis and Arthur. The two were adamant in their insistence to track him down.

They almost got him when he sat down at the meeting.

However, Alfred caught their attention first.

"Bloody hell, Alfred!"

Matthew looked up, and he immediately felt guilty.

Alfred was sporting a black eye that matched his own (however, when he remembered that he had one too, he felt a tiny bit better). Alfred was cheerful as always, waving at Arthur and trying to avoid tripping over the chairs that suddenly seemed to fill the room.

Ludwig was already calling the meeting to order, and Alfred found his seat beside his brother.

Matthew looked away automatically, wringing his hands under the table.

Neither of them said a word to each other. Alfred simply got the attention of everyone there with his exaggerated actions and shouts.

Even though Matthew was sitting beside him, no one noticed him.

_Thank god._

And when the meeting ended, Matthew was the first out the door (even faster than Francis and Arthur, who seemed hell-bent on hunting him down and demanding answers).

He didn't want to talk about it. Not his eye, not hockey, not Gilbert.

When he finally reached his hotel room and looked up, he realized that he hadn't been the first one out of the conference room.

Gilbert had.

"So you and Jones have matching shiners," Gilbert observed when Matthew stopped in the hallway.

Matthew swallowed and didn't reply.

"Thought I heard something when I came by last night. Figured you were having a bad one."

_And you didn't look?_ Matthew wanted to ask. He just looked away.

"He try to jump you or somethin'? He's always been a weird one."

"Can you move?" Matthew wished his voice were louder. "I'm really tired."

Gilbert chuckled. "Oh, c'mon! You've got the awesome me right in front of you, and you're thinking about sleep?"

"Gilbert, please," Matthew muttered. "I just want to get in bed."

"With me?" Gilbert grinned.

Matthew didn't say anything.

"C'mon, Matt. It'll be fun! It always is."

"Gilbert, I'm tired."

Gilbert sighed. "You're no fun anymore. Look at all I do for you. All I want is a little tail, and you have to be a whiney little bitch about it. I mean, I'm the best thing that happened to you! You could at least be a little grateful." He frowned. "I mean, look at Jones. He gave you a black eye for your troubles. You really want someone like that to notice you?"

Matthew looked back towards him carefully, a little surprised to see that Gilbert had moved closer.

"I never hit you."

Matthew blinked. It was true. Gilbert had _never_ raised a hand to him.

But he was suffocating in the other man's presence. He was miserable.

"I don't want to do this anymore," Matthew murmured. The hallway was silent for a moment, and he realized he had spoken out loud. He looked fearfully towards Gilbert, but the other was smiling again.

"You're tired," he said. "Go get some sleep. I'll come back later."

Gilbert passed him, ruffling his hair before he entered the stairwell.

* * *

><p>Matthew let himself fall onto his hotel bed, staring up at the ceiling.<p>

He idly wondered if what he was feeling was a good thing.

Was he sad? Or happy? Angry?

He groaned and covered his eyes with his forearm, not really wanting to do anything, but also not wanting to do _nothing_. He was frustrated, and he still felt like he didn't have a choice in what he was doing. It still felt like he was dancing to Gilbert's tune, and that no matter what he did, he would be forced to stay in the current situation.

Even his (_pathetic_) attempt to end it had only earned a pat on the head from the man.

The more he thought about his failure, the more depressed and angry he became.

_So useless._

_Can't even get the point across._

_And you're a country?_

"Want a soda?"

Matthew's arm dropped to the mattress and he jolted up into a sitting position. Alfred was settling himself in front of the TV again, surrounded by bags of food and various bottles of soda.

"Eh..." Matthew blinked, looked towards the door. Had he followed him in? So he had seen everything?

"You were really out o' it durin' the meeting," Alfred said past a mouthful of burger. He held up a card, and Matthew's fingers flew to his pocket.

His second room key was gone.

"When did you-"

"Like I said, you were really out of it." Alfred was already flipping through channels, finally settling on hockey (of course).

Matthew groaned in defeat. He knew that telling Alfred to get the hell out wouldn't work.

Instead, he pulled open his bag and grabbed his notes. He could at least get his work done.

Neither of the brothers spoke while the game played. As time went on, and Alfred's victory dances got more involved, Matthew found himself watching the television from the corner of his eyes, silently cheering on his favorite team and mentally cursing the goals of their opponent.

"C'mon, Mattie," Alfred said after two long hours. "Have some soda! I got some root beer, and then some Dr. Pepper, an' Sprite, and o' course some Pepsi, and-"

"I'm fine," Matthew muttered, quickly turning his eyes back to his notes. He hadn't done anything. He wanted to kick himself for it, but, well, they really weren't that important.

Alfred pouted and dropped back into his chair, watching as a goalie blocked a shot.

Then there were knocks at the door.

Neither brother made a sound. Matthew lifted his head slowly, his eyes falling on Alfred, but he was watching the game.

"You up?" the familiar voice called, and Matthew swallowed. He didn't know why, but he suddenly felt guilty. His heart had begun to pound in his chest, and the world seemed to sway. Everything seemed suddenly so much bigger, growing around him and leaving him behind. He felt so small compared to everything around him, and a shiver ran up his spine.

"Matt, open the door! I know you're in there, I can hear the tv!"

Matthew opened his mouth and closed it, turning his eyes to the door and away from where he had tried to fixate them on Alfred's back.

Alfred shook his head.

Matthew stopped moving, his body becoming unnaturally still, and Alfred turned around in his chair to give him a small smile and a shrug.

Gilbert called again.

Matthew stared at Alfred. Then he shut his eyes. He let his head hang, let his chin rest against his chest.

He took a deep breath through his nose, then another.

And another.

It was a long time before the knocking stopped.

The two inside the room didn't say anything for a long time.

Alfred, of course, was the one to finally break the silence. "You want me to leave?"

Matthew opened his eyes and raised his chin slowly. He locked eyes with Alfred, then he shook his head.

"No."

* * *

><p>The night passed slowly, but Matthew found that he didn't mind it at all. Alfred watched the hockey game in relative silence, and Matthew kept catching himself casting looks at the tv over his notes.<p>

In short, the notes were never completed. It didn't take long for him to forget them, and though he would look away whenever Alfred looked back at him, his eyes always returned to the television.

They didn't talk a lot. Alfred didn't find it necessary to say more than a few words to his brother (mostly asking if he was hungry or if he thought a shot was good), while Matthew simply hummed responses and continued to pretend to do his notes.

After the lack of conversation became unbearably awkward, Matthew finally asked for something to eat.

Alfred was at his side almost instantly, seeming to teleport from the chair to Matthew's bed. He held out a large paper back that reeked of grease and heart attacks, but Matthew bit the bullet and pulled out a burger.

"Johnson's looking good this year," Alfred ventured when Matthew unwrapped the burger and bit into it.

Matthew was surprised by how ravenous he suddenly felt, and he looked at his brother.

"He's okay." He wasn't able to stop himself, and soon he was talking about the player's endurance and technique, and _"Did you see his third goal? That took _real_ skill, not like your teams have."_ Alfred simply nodded and sucked down a soda, his eyes close to glazing over. He obviously wasn't that interested in the topic, but seeing Matthew get so involved in something was a relief after the lack of anything over the last few months.

And once Matthew had exhausted his thoughts on hockey (though really, he simply decided to change the topic to keep Alfred interested), they moved onto other things. The economy. Francis. The new environmental bills. Arthur. The world meeting. Feliciano's idea to serve pasta at the beginning of the meeting (a plan that ended in disaster when someone ran into the Italian and spilled it on the floor, inciting Lovino's wrath and Feliciano's tears).

Matthew wondered at how he couldn't stop himself. When the topic changed or the conversation came to a pause, he was always adding more, continuing when even Alfred couldn't contribute something.

Just the fact that he was _talking_ to someone baffled and delighted him, and he was beginning to forget his inhibitions, losing himself in conversation and just _babbling_ on, not making sense, but not really caring.

He would probably find himself scolding himself for his lack of control later, but for that instant, he wanted to connect to someone without having to resort to meaningless (_sometimes painful_) sex.

"Arthur and Francis were fighting in the cafe earlier," Alfred said. He kept going back to the two, and Matthew stopped talking long enough to take a few breaths. "Y'know, they're really worried. About you, y'know." Alfred seemed to struggle as he tried to voice his thoughts. "You didn't really talk to anyone. Just... Well, _him_, I guess."

Matthew swallowed. Alfred looked up to see his expression, and he looked uncomfortable. "Just... I mean, he's not good. He's just, ah... Bad?"

Matthew said nothing.

"Well, listen. How 'bout we get something to eat after the meeting tomorrow? Francis keeps going on about this restaurant, and it sounds pretty cool, so we could get something to eat."

"I have to do my notes," Matthew found himself saying. His mind had finally caught up with his mouth, and he was (_as he had predicted_) a bit shocked by how freely he had been talking.

"We both know the damn things aren't going to get done." Alfred grinned, though Matthew could see the hesitation behind the expression. "Might as well have some fun instead of staying in your room."

Matthew didn't bother protesting. He knew that he would get pulled into it eventually, and simply decided to go with the flow.

* * *

><p>The next day, the meeting passed as though everything in the world was as perfect as it could be, with Alfred flaunting his heroism as Arthur and Francis fought (though their battle seemed a bit forced). Matthew watched everything happen in silence, tense, wondering what was going to happen.<p>

He refused to look towards Ludwig. He knew that Gilbert was there, and he hoped that avoiding his eyes would send his (rather pitiful) message, that he was done with everything. He tightened his grip on the papers he held in his lap, crinkling them nervously.

His unspoken message apparently never reached Gilbert.

The meeting ended, and again Matthew found that he was only the second to leave, after Gilbert accosted him in the hallway outside his door.

"He must've been really out of it last night," Gilbert laughed. "You shouldn't leave the tv so loud though. Wouldn't think you could sleep well with it blaring like that." He grinned, and Matthew swallowed. Had Gilbert's smiles always seemed so menacing?

"Anyways, how about we grab a few drinks? There's a bar down the street, and-"

"Matt!"

Gilbert was cut off as Alfred suddenly appeared. The man had lost his suitcase somewhere, and he grabbed Matthew's shoulder with a hand as he passed by. He didn't pay any attention to Gilbert.

"I told you 'bout that restaurant, right? Let's go!"

For all the times he had complained about Alfred, or tried to get away from him to avoid going out in public, Matthew didn't think he had ever been as relieved to see him. Alfred was dragging him away, slowing slightly when the Canadian tripped over his own feet. As Matthew watched Alfred's face, he could see tension slowly leaving his expression as they moved farther away from Gilbert, until he was sporting a gentle smile.

"Damn straight," Alfred cheered when they finally found their way into the parking garage, and his rental car. "Gonna have some fun tonight."

Matthew remained silent. He didn't really have anything worth saying. He kept his eyes aimed outside the window, watching the darkness of the parking garage, and then the lights of the stores on the main street. He wondered if he should have let Alfred drive considering how he was in other countries, but decided it was far too late to voice his concerns.

And when they finally arrived at their destination, Matthew was more than a little surprised to find that they weren't at a "fine restaurant" as he had thought they were going to, but more of a "family restaurant". Complete with large booths and vinyl seats, and the children's menus that had tiny pictures to color in.

Matthew frowned. Why would they go there? Hell, they were in _suits_.

But Alfred had already gotten them a table, and then they were eating some French dish that Alfred complained about (they hadn't had burgers, and for that, Alfred cursed Francis), and Matthew found that he was talking again, about everything and nothing at all.

And Alfred, despite his big mouth, listened. He waited, occasionally voiced his thoughts, and just smiled whenever Matthew made a point, stupid or intelligent, whether it was relevant to anything or not.

Matthew didn't know what was happening to him, but he had an idea that it was good.

* * *

><p>"Only bad thing about those places is the lack of a bar," Alfred complained when they were finally in the car. Matthew had the feeling that he knew where the conversation was going. "So, Francis told me about a bar down the street!"<p>

Matthew nodded, wondering what the hell his brother was thinking. They had just been out to eat. Did they really need to hit a pub?

No sooner had he thought this, they were already parked, and Alfred was climbing out of the car and motioning excitedly.

Matthew followed him (albeit a bit slow), and looked around at the inside of the establishment. It was actually a pretty nice place. Dark wood bar and tables, large televisions in numerous locations broadcasting sports, news and even a sitcom (a few men were gathered around the one with the sitcom, and they giggled occasionally).

And then Matthew realized why Alfred had decided to bring him there.

Arthur and Francis were sitting at the bar (actually, Arthur was _draped over_ the bar, but that really didn't matter at this point).

"Check it out!" Alfred had the nerve to say. He had enough gall to look surprised, not even flinching before Matthew's glare. "Francis and Arthur're here!"

Francis turned when he heard Alfred's voice, and he smiled at Matthew. Matthew felt almost guilty for avoiding the two European nations for so long. He chanced a look at Arthur, listening as the man grumbled something about "cursin' 'im out o' bloody existence."

"Sit, Matthew!" Francis said rather enthusiastically. Matthew stared at him for a moment, then sat beside him. Alfred sat in the seat on his other side, looking past the two at Arthur. "Ah, he's..." He waved his hands in the air, not feeling that he needed to say anything. Arthur was still mumbling about curses, and the "right way t' use a cudgel." Matthew idly wondered who Arthur was planning to kill in his stupor, but decided against asking.

Matthew decided to simply sit back and go with whatever they were planning (within reason). He was fairly surprised when the topic of Gilbert was not brought up, though he wondered if Alfred had anything to do with it.

Apparently, they weren't planning _anything_ (save Arthur). They honestly wanted to watch the television mounted on the wall and insult the players, talk about the meeting, and just hang out.

It mystified him.

And it made him look at Alfred more.

What the hell was going through Alfred's mind? He was acting _normal_, which was a rarity. He wasn't proclaiming that he would become hero of the world, he wasn't acting like a fool, he wasn't being a pompous ass.

He was just being a calm, fun-loving guy at a bar who apparently wanted to take a break after work.

And Matthew found it a little bit endearing.

* * *

><p>Their return to the hotel seemed to take a moment. Matthew was thinking back over the conversations about nothing, Arthur's crazed rambling, Alfred's laughs. Before he knew it, Alfred was turning off the car and climbing out, talking about something that he didn't know anything about.<p>

And then they were walking through the empty hallways of the hotel, back to Matthew's hotel room.

Alfred had found drinks and burgers somewhere, and he was prodding Matthew with a straw.

"Wanna drink?" he asked, and after three minutes of being poked by the piece of plastic, Matthew took it and a drink.

"Thanks."

"You like soda," Alfred shrugged. "Hey, I heard there's another hockey game on tonight!"

As much as Matthew wanted to watch it, he frowned.

"You don't want to watch football or something? Well, _American_ football?"

"You mean _real_ football," Alfred said smugly. "Nah. No good teams are on tonight. Might as well watch hockey."

Alfred grinned as Matthew opened his door and walked in, tossing his jacket on the bed. Alfred had already settled in front of the television, though this time he motioned for Matthew to take the chair next to him.

Matthew did so, settling in and leaning back. He waited for Alfred to turn on the television, taking a deep breath.

Alfred turned on the television, but just as he went to sit down, there was a knock on the door.

"Matt, open up!" Gilbert's voice demanded.

This time, Alfred didn't indicate that he wanted Matthew to keep quiet.

This time, Alfred opened the door.

Gilbert frowned when he saw Alfred on the other side of the door.

"The hell're you here for?" Gilbert demanded.

"I'm not allowed to be here?" Alfred tilted his head to the side, but Matthew could see that he had stiffened.

"I have to see Matt." Gilbert narrowed his eyes. "Now."

"We're watching hockey right now."

"Who gives a fuck about hockey?" Gilbert looked disgusted. "Just get him."

"We're busy."

Matthew stood hesitantly and approached the door, standing just behind and to the side of Alfred. "Gilbert, listen. I don't think that-"

"Shut up, Matt," Gilbert snapped. "Get your ass out here."

Alfred stepped to the side, completely blocking Matthew from Gilbert. "Don't talk to him."

"Alfred-"

"Back off, Jones," Gilbert growled before Matthew could finish his sentence. "Last time I checked, Mattie was _mine_."

"_You_ don't call him Mattie," Alfred snarled, "and he's not _yours_. You can't treat him like a fucking _thing,_ you jackass."

"Alfred!" Matthew said loudly. He grabbed Alfred's arm before he could deck Gilbert, and Alfred grit his teeth. Matthew took a breath, trying to keep himself from shaking. "Gilbert, I said I don't want to do this anymore." He wished his voice was louder. "We can't keep doing... _things_ like that."

Gilbert's expression had darkened, his lips had become a thin white line. He seemed to be chewing on the inside of his cheek, then he finally spoke. His voice was low, controlled. "You're gonna regret this," Gilbert muttered. "I was the best thing that ever happened to you. Just wait a week and that little bitch'll forget about you. You're only good for a quick lay. It won't take long before he gets bored."

Before Alfred could come unglued, Gilbert was walking away. He didn't seem all that perturbed by the "sudden" end to the relationship.

In fact (it hurt Matthew to think this), it looked like he didn't care.

Gilbert hadn't lost anything. Matthew had been a toy.

Matthew was torn between relief and grief.

He had been noticed, but for all the wrong reasons.

It was a long time before there was another sound.

"Must be a movie or something on TV," Alfred said suddenly, his cheerful expression forced. "Let's go."

Matthew nodded his head and followed, shutting the door behind them slowly.

* * *

><p>Gilbert hadn't returned for the meetings.<p>

Matthew had worried, hating himself for worrying about someone that treated him like dirt, while at the same time he was relieved that he didn't have to face him. Alfred sat closer than before (not that anyone noticed), and often their shoulders touched.

What people did notice was that Ludwig was late.

When Ludwig did arrive (three hours late), he muttered something about Gilbert and "projectile vomiting."

That was about the time the meeting descended into chaos.

Arthur had started it, cackling loudly and cursing Gilbert, all the while talking about spells and piracy and other mysterious (and dangerous) sounding topics. Francis was looking at Arthur with something akin to awe and horror, and nations around the room had started to forget about anything related to work as they fought, hugged, and disappeared into various closets.

Matthew shrank back into his seat and watched the happening in detached silence.

It didn't last long.

Alfred started to prod Matthew with a pencil and grinned when he looked over.

"Wanna go see a movie?"

Matthew stared. He didn't say anything, but Alfred took his silence for a "yes" and dragged him out of the room.

Sure, he felt slightly guilty (he had the feeling that Gilbert's sudden illness had something to do with him).

And he felt a bit overwhelmed (Alfred had that kind of effect on people).

But maybe things would be better from now on.

Maybe.

* * *

><p>"Sorry."<p>

Matthew tenderly pressed a washcloth to Alfred's forehead, trying to stop the bleeding. Alfred simply grunted a response.

"But I told you to wear a helmet. My team isn't bad. You should know that."

Alfred was silent. He glared at his brother, but the effect was lessened by the large bruise on his cheek, and his split lip.

"Arthur and Francis invited us out for drinks," Matthew tried to get an answer. "There're burgers at the pub."

Finally a reaction. Alfred's eyes lit up slightly, and he grabbed his brother's shoulder and tried to pull himself up into a standing position.

"Wait, Al, don-"

Alfred's legs collapsed underneath him as soon as he managed to straighten them, and he crashed back down on the couch, knocking it over and dragging his brother down with him.

The two were silent, Alfred groaning as his head throbbed painfully, and Matthew trying not to kill his brother. His overexcited motions, his leg injury from when Matthew had taken him out on the ice, his bleeding lip and forehead, they had _all_ contributed to the fall. Alfred was just too eager to run out and get some burgers, but with _this,_ it was rather obvious that he wasn't going anywhere anytime soon.

"Homemade burgers and a movie?" Matthew offered.

"Homemade burgers and a movie," Alfred agreed, then he groaned.

He wasn't playing one-on-one with Matthew ever again.


End file.
